Winning with Science and Firepower
by PastahFarian
Summary: "Do you wish to win, Remnant? Do you wish to survive? To live? Then listen and listen closely. Your survival will not be won by hunstmen or institutions but by Iron and Blood." A political and economically focused Self-Insert with bits and pieces of fluff.
1. Chapter 1

I sighed as I closed my laptop down with an audible clunk. My hand went up to message my temples, a vain attempt to ease the throbbing headache going my way. But no matter how hard I tried to relax my muscles, it only tensed in return. Frustrated, I threw my arms out in defeat and instead slumped on my chair.

Today…was not a good day.

I leaned forwards and opened my phone, my eyes scanning the messages sent by my mother.

My grandfather was having complications. The tough up-and-at-them bastard that had been in my life more than my actual father was fighting for his life on his hospital bed. My mother had texted me urging me to get to the hospital in all possible haste 'just in case.'

I growled at that statement. I could not accept that. My emotions told me that the old man would be fine; that he would make it. He had always danced with death in his advanced age and had always turned out fine in the end.  
_  
'This time would also be the same.'_ My heart said. That was the fact that I wanted to believe. But the logical part of me said otherwise. Ever since he suffered a stroke, his health had declined dramatically. He was also older now and his immunity system was also weaker.

Worst of all, he refused to eat anything and had to be fed with a tube. His words were few and if he did speak, they were slurred. Then the worst came to past as my mother messaged me minutes ago that his breathing suddenly became abnormal and she was calling the nurses in to assist him.

It was then that my path was decided. I was not going to waste any more time bitching about it. "_Act now, bitch later."_ My grandfather's voice came to me. I smiled at that fond memory. I stood from my seat and pocketed my phone. I retrieved my wallet from my other pants and the keys to my house. I then put on my three-year old Nike shoes (It was still intact!) and went out of my house but not before locking each entrances and shutting close all the windows.

As I was about to leave, my phone vibrated. And as my phone vibrated, I was suddenly struck with an intense and queasy feeling.

I did not like that feeling.

Slowly, I took it from my pockets and read it. It was from my mother. Reluctantly, I unlocked my phone and read the full message. It was then that my world went very still.

Images flashed before me. I could hear a young child crying because of a bicycle accident. Then came a rough voice that scolded the child for being careless in his biking and the bike for not supporting the child well.

I heard the same child crying into the arms of a big, rough looking man who whispered words of comfort into his ears and vengeance against a man who had neglected his duties as a father.

Tu abuelo esta muerto.

_Your grandfather is dead._

After those words, my mind detached from my body. All other conscious thoughts failed to register for me. All I could decently remember was a pained cry of rage emanating from my mouth; of me rushing from my front yard and into the street, tears streaking through my eyes.

I didn't snap out of it to see myself walk onto the road, or to hear the handbrake of a big Nissan truck make its tyres scream in it's fight against momentum to stop. I didn't remember anything after it hit me.

* * *

I awoke with a gasp. And after a quick look around me, knew immediately that I was no longer in Kansas.

I did not see the busy and sunny street of my hometown nor could nor could I see the crowd gathering quickly around me, calling ambulances to report my death to traffic. I was in a canyon of sorts. In front of me was a long-winding path beset by golden leaves.

At the end of the path was a large fountain that had an island in the middle of it. On that island was a tree with the same golden leaves that dotted the path.

I looked around and found myself alone in the canyon. The only thing that seemed to accompany me was the song of birds, the rustling of leaves and the bubbling of the fountain. My loneliness however was short-lived as a figure appeared out of nowhere at the end of the path. The figure had a distinct male form and was tall. On his head was a crown of antlers. He would have passed as an okay gent if it wasn't for the fact that his skin was _literally made out of golden light._

"**Come**." The golden man beckoned.

I did as what was asked and strode toward him. Despite the calming atmosphere that surrounded me, I could not help but feel wary. Eventually, I stopped half-way from the golden man.

While he did not look overtly-hostile or malevolent, one has to remember that Lucifer Morningstar appeared to mortals not as a scaly forked-tongued creep but as a handsome fellow with a charming smile. Or as a dude made out of golden light.

"So…" I started. "Are you God?"

The golden man said nothing.

"The Devil?"

Again, nothing,

"Allah? Buddha? Vishnu? Bathala? Zeus? Xenu?"

He waved his hand and a chair appeared behind me.

"**Sit**." He ordered. Not wanting to piss him off, I complied and sat down. Silence fell in the courtyard as the golden man stared at me. I squirmed under his gaze, feeling like a piece of meat being eyed by a man who had broken off a relationship with a vegan for five years.

Again, he spoke.

"I**am the God of Light. With my brother, the God of Darkness, we both created the world you call Remnant" **He declared. He pointed his finger at me. **"****And we have decided to appoint you as our champion to repair our...mistakes.**"

"Mistakes?" I mouthed.

"I**ndeed. I presume that you are aware of their names?**" He asked.

Wait a minute. God of Light? Darkness? Remnant?

Then everything clicked. No wonder this place looked so familiar. And like ice, my respect for the guy in front of me just melted.

"You're the bastards that turned Remnant from a five-star restaurant into a drug den." I concluded. The God of Light nodded, ignoring the fact that I just called him a bastard.

"**Yes. My brother and I have, for millennia, pondered on our handling of Salem and her husband Ozma.**" rumbled the golden clad man. "**We have decided that we were...wrong and hasty. And in that decision, countless innocents have suffered not only from their games but also from our...carelessness.**" he sighed. "**And so, we have agreed that a champion would be the best solution to repair the damage that has been dealt on our creations.**"

"And what would this champion do exactly to fix Ozzie and Sally?" I asked; curios on what they had planned for the two.

The God of Light did not hesitate.

"**Kill them.**"

He waved his hand and there came a bright flash of light and a dagger appeared in front of me. I stood up, my eyes running over it. It was a beautiful looking dagger designed like a naval dirk. It was basic in design, its grip and cross guards were as black as night while the blade glowed with unnatural light. If anything, it was a symbolic expression of the Two Brothers coming to an agreement.

"**This is a dagger that my brother and I have specially created to finally give Ozma and Salem their final rest. They have...endured their punishments long enough.**"

"Would you be kind to tell me why you two had a change of heart?" I asked through a sweet smile, my fingers twirling around the grip.

"**As I said earlier, their quarrels have involved countless innocents. Far too many.**" explained the God of Light. "**The justice that I have meted onto Salem for her treachery must only be for her and her only. My brother as well has come to accept my view and has grown to despise her involvement of others.**"

"What bout Ozzie?"

"**Ozma has had his chances in stopping Salem but he has lost hope and has become useless. He is simply delaying his wife long enough in the hopes of having silver-eyed warriors defeat her in his stead. Remnant has endured them both long enough. For the growth and the future of Remnant, they both must die.**"

My sweet smile never left my face. "I see. Would you two want some fries with that as well? Maybe even some soda floats?"

For the first time, the God of Light looked at me in confusion.

"**Speak sense, Champion.**" The god demanded. What the fuck? Was this golden asshole serious!?

I gripped the dagger, anger swelling in me as I glared at the golden asshole. "So you two fuckers…made me miss saying goodbye to my dying grandfather who was more of a father to me than my real father…_JUST SO THAT I COULD LISTEN TO YOU TALK SHIT!_?"

With that, I threw the dagger at the God of Light as fast as I could. The dagger sailed in the air and looked as if it was about to enter the golden bastards' chest but the god raised his hand and stopped the dagger in its place.

I roared as I charged at him, screaming profanities. But before I could even get near him, shackles of light appeared on my legs that kept me firmly planted on where I stood. I squirmed and screamed, demanding him to release me so that I could give him a good bloody licking but the golden bastard just watched me.

So I ranted.

"Amongst the two of you bastards, it is YOUR fault that Remnant is getting an ass-kicking anyway! If you had just granted Salem her wish to bring back Ozzie then she wouldn't have showed up at darker you's place and everyone would have lived a happy life!" I raged.

"But _noooo!_ You had to act all hoighty toighty and butthurt that your brother did something nice for someone! You could have just offered an alternative to her like giving her a way to Ozzie for one last time for her to have some closure on his death but you just had to rub it in her face, eh?"

"**Her request would have violated the-**" I cut him off.

"_SHE LOST THE LOVE OF HER LIFE!_" My words left me as a roar.

"They were_YOUNG! _One of them was _GONE! YOU DECLARED YOURSELF THE GOD OF LIGHT! OPPOSITE OF DESTRUCTION!_"

"She cried out for help A_ND YOU DID NOT DELIVER!_ That's not hypocrisy - that makes you _WORSE _than evil! _YOU SWORE TO HELP, TO ALL THOSE PEOPLE, AND THEN YOU DIDN'T HOLD UP YOUR END!_"

"You _DECIDED _to answer! And you showed your colours when your answer was _NO!_ With some pithy platitudes to bullshit why you couldn't twitch a finger to help!" I couldn't help but think of a snake with it's venom; biting hard and digging deep. I don't think I knew how else to get through to a god.

"Your brother, on the other hand? The one who made it _VERY FUCKING CLEAR_ he was all about wrecking shit?! HE helped! When he said he wasn't about that! He helped because that was the _FIRST TIME SOMEBODY ASKED HIM!_"

"He listened! He helped! _YOU FUCKED OFF AND PRETENDED YOU WERE ANYTHING OTHER THAN TOO PETTY TO HEAR A WIDOW'S PRAYER!_"

For an hour, I continued my tirade. Then came another hour. Then another. Eventually, I had run out of things to say and was left in the ground huffing and heaving but still gave that golden bastard a right proper glare.

He stole me from my family! He stole me from giving my grandfather a goodbye! And he now wants me to clean up the mistakes that he and his brother did? Fuck him and his shiny golden asshole!

The god walked towards me, no doubt to offer some justification for treating Salem and Ozzie like shit. But what he did next shocked me.

"**You are right.**" He said.

I could not believe my ears.

"What?"

"**My brother and I have't been the best gods for Remnant.**" admitted the god, shoulders slumped in defeat. "I**have ignored the simple wishes of a grieving wife all for the sake of upholding the balance of life and death; not realizing that death would soon overtake life after Salem's treachery. And because of my zealousness, Remnant suffers.**" But then, his posture became rigid.

"**While he and I aren't the best of gods, we are at least not foolish gods. We recognize when we've made mistakes in our judgments and we do our best to correct them if we can." **He paused.**"Now, I ask you, Champion. Will you assist us in fixing our mistakes?"**

I paused to think. The Two Brothers were assholes. Really giant assholes. The type of assholes that would and could create worst assholes either by accident or by design. The things they did to Salem was just...assholish. I was so tempted to tell this bastard to take his deal and shove it where the sun don't shine but I hesitated.

If I helped them, and offed Sally, the grimm would most likely be less controlled and be easier to hunt down and kill. Cindy and her gang of misfits wouldn't be able to do that much damage and all that unnecessary shit that happened in Volume 3 would be avoided. And if I offed Ozzy, he would not longer be able to send people to die anymore. People like Ruby's mum...

Ya know what? Fuck it! We're going in!

"Alright you scurrilous bastard. I'll do it..." I sad through grit teeth, still quite hating the golden bastard in front of me. "But after I've spoken with grandpa."

"**Very well.**" With a flick of his wrist, a man appeared right in front of me. He was smiling.

* * *

The conversation was short and heartfelt. Grandpa wasn't really a man of words. He was a man of action. After some words of goodbye and a whole twenty-minutes of crying and hugging, I was ready.

"So...how do I start?" I asked, now less angry and a bit more excited. I mean, it's RWBY for goodness sake's. Who wouldn't be excited?

"**My brother and I want Salem and Ozpin to be removed as soon as possible. Do what you can and as much as you can. When they are both released from Remnant, you are free to do as you please.**"

"So...do I get powers and st-"

Before I could finish the sentence, I caught sight of a gangly, claw-handed purple form coalescing together to lie down atop a rock. Those purple eyes glittered as it waved a claw at me.

"**Farewell, Champion.**" was all I heard before my vision went away, with the rest of my senses.

I stayed in the dark but it was a nice dark. It was warm and I somehow I could taste really nice food despite having no tastebuds yet. Then something pushed me and eventually, I came to Remnant the same way I exited Earth.

Screaming.

But something was off with those screams. Those were baby screams! Was I being reborn as a baby? With an fully functional adult mind? Nightmare fuel!_**Night mare fuel I say! I do not consent! I DO NOT CONSENT! Oh god! OH GOD!**_

"Congratulations Mr. Friedlich! You have a son!" cried aloud a voice.

"It's a recruit!" cried another.

Then came loud cheers as I felt myself being wrapped around a blanket. When I opened my eyes, I found myself staring into the face of a blue eyed and white haired man who looked like he lifted fifty a day. I did not fear him; he wore a father's smile.

"A son..." he whispered, voice cracking with emotion, blue eyes watery with tears. "I have been blessed with a son!" He grinned at me. "Whatever I have and will have...now belong to you. My boy...My heir..." He lifted me up for all to see.

"My little Alexander!"

A peaceful defender of men huh? That's pretty neat.

How little I knew that in a few years, my name would be pretty bloody ironic.

* * *

A/N: Taken from my SpaceBattles account, Pastah_Farian. People had been asking me to take this fic and put it up here and I have now done so.

Some fellow had originally tried to copy and paste my fic and pass it off as his. He had deleted it after some of my viewers and even I told him to delete it. I had forgotten the name of that guy but whoever he was, I forgive you.


	2. Chapter 2

Growing up again was a humiliating experience. I had the consciousness of an adult but not the will to control my body. I couldn't control my bowel movements. I drooled and slobbered myself. I cried a lot so that I could be fed or be comforted. But my cries were usually muffled for as soon as I made noise, it would be quickly silenced by the teats of either a nursemaid or from Mama Friedlich herself.

Eventually, the humiliation of infancy lost its effect on me and I accepted the fact that I would have to dig up dignity from a deep hole to get it back. Babies are supposed to be cute little disgusting gremlins so there is nothing wrong to crap and drool all over the place.

And as I waited for the moment to be given full control of my body, I was busy bombarding my head for solutions regarding my future.

Namely, how exactly was I going to off Sallie and Ozzie?

The former controls an army of nightmare fuel creatures who could fuck you up to shit-creek in ways you'd never thought possible and is also a powerful sorcerer on her own right while the latter is a Doctor Who regenerating bastard who runs a school of super-powered teenagers.

How the flying fuck could I, a scrub from a tropical country now a drooling dawdling infant, even hope to kill those two?

When I eventually reached childhood and had gotten a good grip of things, a solution presented itself to me.

My family, the Friedlichs, were industrialists that made weapons for the Atlesian military. We made everything from the cannons that were attached to Atlas's battleships to the smallest microchips that made its android forces work. Atlas was Remnant's Prussia.

It was only inevitable that someone would have to be their Krupps. And very much like the Krupps, my family worked closely with the state.

I had found all of this when I was five and had wandered around our house, a pleasant Victorian-era styled mansion, and found my father's study. I pushed open the door and explored his office. On his desk I found numerous papers bearing the company's seal and the seal of the Atlesian military.

I didn't have to be a genius to understand that they were After Action Reports of experimental weapons that Atlas was testing such as a new rifle that had greater punching power towards the Grimm, a tank that was the bastard lovechild of an Overlord Tank and a Bolo, and a new line of androids that would soon replace the scarier looking androids that Atlas currently fielded.

I had plopped myself on my father's chair and had taken the papers in hand to read them closely. So engrossed was I in reading them that I failed to notice the distinct sound of a scroll taking a picture. I looked up and saw my father standing at the doorway with his scroll up in picture mode.

Behind him were two men dressed in the white uniforms of the Atlesian military. The first man was an elderly gentleman who let his white hair grow into a un-military like manner and had eyes that twinkled like gems. The second man was pure military, everything from his hair down to his posture. He also had a permanent looking grimace that I could not help but dislike.

"Oho! It looks like your son can no longer wait to take hold of the family business, Gerard!" exclaimed the old man as he gave my father a pat on the back. My cheeks reddened in embarrassment as my father, Gerard Friedlich, beamed at me and had the look of a dad who was about to do something to embarrass his children.

"My little CEO!" he squealed as he walked around the table and towards me. He held both his hands out to pinch my cheeks and ruffle my hair, all the while gushing about my cuteness.

And there I sat, red in the face while the elderly man laughed at me expense and his younger grim-looking attache merely shook his head in disbelief.

After a few minutes of embarrassment, my father set me up on his lap while he and his military associates discussed business. Before they started, the black-haired man eyed me with a mix of suspicion and disdain.

"Mr. Friedlich, I do not mean to be rude but does protocol allow for a child to be sitting here while we discuss matters of the state?" He pointed out all the while giving me that look of his.

But before my father could answer, the older gentleman added his two cents.

"Don't be like that, Ironwood." _Wait what? _"That child is the future heir of this company. Would it not be best for him to start sooner rather than later? The experience would do him good. Is that right, Gerard?" He turned to my father who nodded.

I looked up at the black haired man and scanned him from up and down. So this was Ironwood before he became a General huh? I wonder if he still had his meaty bits on him.

As I scanned him, our eyes met. I smiled and waved at him. He raised his eyebrow at me, looking unsure on how to respond to a precocious five year old. After some moments of deliberation, he settled with an awkward wave and a forced smile, no doubt unused to reply to children.

Our interactions stopped when the elderly man clapped his hands that got both our attention.

"Well then. Let's start!"

And thus, the discussion started.

"The new battle rifle we are designing, its name still pending, has achieved satisfactory results." started my father. "The new rounds we have also designed have proved to be quite effective on smaller and medium sized grimm." As proof, he produced his scroll and sent Ironwood short videos of said squads engaging grimm. One of the videos was of a squad of Atlesian soldiers in a forest eliminating a pack of beowolves.

The black-haired man received it and leaned forward to show his superior the videos. I watched in fascination as the rifles tore through the grimm like a fist tearing through paper. I looked at them and saw them mumbling amongst themselves, their rumblings I could not hear, as they watched every single video that had been sent. Upon finishing the last one, they turned to my father and urged him to continue.

He cleared his throat. "The soldiers that tested the rifle have been receptive so far. They say that is lighter and could be relied upon to dispatch grimm. The only complaint they have is that it overheats rather easily due to the dust rounds and have proven difficult to maintain." The two military men sent him concerned looks but father simply smiled. "But don't worry gentleman! My researchers will be working night and day to address its problems! I assure you of that!"

The men nodded. My father continued.

"I am also proud to say that our proposed Defender tank is coming on nicely!" declared Gerard. Schematics appeared on Ironwood's scroll that showed an oversized tank that had a large turret that had two massive cannons. It also had four smaller bubble turrets on each side that could protect the vehicle on all flanks. It had a small tower on the middle of the turret and also had openings in which its defenders could open fire.

"It will be armed with two 125 mm Friedlich cannons and will be complimented with four 50 mm dual-mounted cannons, one at each side of the tank. It will also be a mobile field command vehicle, a transport vehicle, and a support vehicle!" He then pointed at the tower that was on the tank. "It will also have an in-built mini-CCT tower that can command android units independently within at least within a 8 km radius! Perfectly useful and reliable! And the only thing that it really needs is for the Design Committee to approve of it so that my factories can start production!"

"You seem to put much faith in your design, Gerard. Especially in this...tank." the old man noted skeptically. Father huffed and crossed his arms.

"Of course! Tanks are big, manly, heavily armored and heavily armed!"

"The Paladin design that is being forwarded by the Schnee Dust Company is also, as you have said; big, manly, heavily armored and heavily armed." observed Irownwood. "And unlike your Defender tank, it can easily be transported around."

"If I were the design committee, I would give Gerard's design a chance, Ironwood." remarked the old man. "Speaking from a military point of view, the Defender tank is moderately cheaper than the Paladin. And judging from the schematics, quite simpler to maintain and guzzles on dust less. Let us also not forget that we will be sending these machines against the Grimm. When the time calls for it, every single equipment we will have must be used to its fullest extent." he reasoned.

I looked up at Father and noted the uncomfortable look on his face.

"Jacques Schnee is a colleague and a fellow magnate but with all due respect, he knows nothing about weapons design. His little 'Paladin' will just be an ugly, over-engineered, dust-guzzler that will probably be stolen as soon as it leaves the production line!" He crossed his arms.

"If I were him, I'd rather stick to dust mining and leave weapons manufacturing to those that know how to do it." grumbled Gerard. I could see a certain look on his face. A look of frustration and of a man who was feeling threatened.

An awkward silence fell in the room as the three men and one boy sat on their seats. There was something amiss here, judging from the knowing looks Ironwood's superior sent my father. Luckily, Ironwood leaned forward and cleared his throat. "You said you had the last report, Mr. Friedlich?"

That knocked father from his thoughts and he cleared his own throat before continuing. "O-of course."

He took the paper featuring the new Atlesian android and began to read aloud. "The Atlesian Knight-200 design is going smoothly. It is performing remarkably better than its predecessor in terms of dust usage, combat performance, and durability. The test groups we hired to rate the design have been favorable to it, calling it more 'friendly' and less 'scary'. My head scientist, Geppetto Polendina..." My eyebrows raised in recognition. "...has also devised a system that would make dust consumption even more efficient in the long run. His upgrades can be fitted into the final design without further changes. We can begin production as soon as the Design Committee gives us their approval."

So Penny's dad is working for my father? That's rather exciting. So in the far future, I'd be able to meet RWBY's resident android girl far earlier than anyone huh? I unconsciously smiled, the words _"I am combat ready!"_ echoing in my head.

"So far, that is all that I have to report, gentlemen." my father suddenly said, knocking me from my thoughts. The two men nodded and rose from their seats.

"It was a productive meeting, Gerard." the older gentleman remarked. "I shall inform the Committee regarding your results."

His gaze then turned to me. "And it was also an honor to meet you, young man. I look forward in seeing you outdo your father."

I smiled at his compliment. "Thank you, Mr. General!" I exclaimed, my tone high and childish. The man chuckled as he looked at my father.

"He'll grow into a fine recruit when he'll be older, Gerard. He has shown some skill in infiltrating your office. Why don't you send him to Ironwood here." Said man cringed at the attention and a look of horror came upon his face. "And have him trained to be a Specialist?" He said half-jokingly, half-serious.

My father grimaced as he rubbed the back of his head. "If I agreed to that, general. My wife would have my head."

It was then that a new voice came in. A female one.

"What's this I hear about recruiting?"

Our attention turned to the doorway to see a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman standing at the door way with her arms crossed. She wore a light green business suit and had kept her blonde hair in a bun.

Father turned white while the general began to laugh nervously. Irownwood simply looked lost as to what was happening.

Alena Friedlich _nee_ Petain was a formidable woman. A huntress turned accountant. She handled the finances of the company while Gerard Friedlich handled the business. She and my father met when she was assigned to protect him back in their youth. Their relationship at first was icy, Alena being a commoner from Vale while Gerard was the son of a rich Atlesian arms manufacturer. But after years of being together and after one night they just referred to as 'The greatest time of our lives.'; they fell in love and eventually married.

She fought off Grimm, terrorists, and rogue hunstmen. And when she settled in, she fought Atlesian businessmen, socialites and military officers who thought of her as a high-reaching, Valean gold-digger. She had seen the worst the world had to offer and beat them back.

A formidable lady indeed.

"Ah, Madam Friedlich." greeted the General. "I was merely complimenting your son's infiltration skills for managing to sneak in through his father's office and I thought he would make a fine Atlesian Specialist."

She looked at me, blue eyes flashing. She then smirked as she entered the room, her expression pleased. "Of course. I could not expect anything less from my own son."

She looked at me. I gulped.

I recognized it as the _'You''ll have a spanking later if you don't do what I say!'_ look.

"Alexander Friedlich, your piano tutor spent 20 minutes walking around our house looking for you. Would you kindly explain why you hid from the poor lady?"

Oh shit.

"I forgot?" I offered.

Chuckling erupted right around the room as my mother walked over towards me with a sweet smile. "Attend to your lessons, young man." The iron in her voice was motivation enough for me to scamper from my Father's feet and run out of the room.

From behind me, I could hear mother yelling. "And give her an apology for misbehaving! If I ask her later and she tells me that you didn't apologize, no chocolate pudding for one month!"

At that, I ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. If there was one thing I feared other than my mother's wrath, it was the withholding of chocolate pudding.

And I loved my chocolate pudding 

* * *

Alena Friedlich turned her attention to the man who joked about taking away her baby boy from her and gave him a sweet smile. He was still chuckling when she sent him said smile.

"General Hidenburg. When you said that you wanted to recruit my only son to your army, it was nothing more than a _joke, _wasn't it?"

Hidenburg smiled nervously as he saw her attention on him. "Of course, madam. Nothing more than humour!" he readily agreed.

The ice that formed in the room was quickly thawed when the general glanced at his wristwatch and exclaimed. "Well, would you look at the time! I still have to report your husband's data to the design committee!"

He turned back to her husband. "It was a pleasure to hear from you, Gerard! I shall be hearing from you soon!" With that, he turned from him, but not before giving her one last goodbye, and left, his underling Ironwood trailing behind him.

With a sigh, she turned back to her husband and walked over towards him. She leaned over and gave him a rather unchaste kiss.

After a few minutes of de-stressing, she pulled back and sighed again. "He needs better jokes." deadpanned Alena.

Gerard turned to look at the doorway and squinted. "And I need better doors." He remarked. He clicked his tongue as he stood from his seat and stared at the door. "Looks like I need to stop buying doorknobs from Vacuo now."

"Jokes aside Gerard, I think you need to see this." said Alena as she took an envelope she had hidden and presented it to him. He scanned it briefly then looked up at her, his expression neutral.

"Please tell me that this is a small joke from a prankster who has too much time with his hands." he pleaded.

Alena shook her head.

"It is not a joke, I'm afraid. This invitation came from her own personal butler." At that, Gerard deflated as he glanced at his wristwatch.

"Very well. What would Willow Schnee's soon to be five year old daughter want as a present? What was her name again?"

"Weiss Schnee." 

* * *

A/N: Taken from my Spacebattles account, Pastah_Farian.

I'm not usually on so head over to Spacebattles for faster updates.


	3. Chapter 3

What was a good present for a five-year-old? A girl, at that?

Simple. A puppy!

Give that girl a puppy. Girls like puppies. So does everybody. That's the rules.

Weiss Schnee turned out to be no exception when she first heard the nervous bau-bau bark of the doggie as a servant who needed a shave unwrapped the Samoyed puppy's big rounded carrier-box. Among the smaller toys and cards the present stood out for size... and good taste.

Pearl necklace with a studded gemstone artifice? Really, guy who looks like he belongs more in a boardroom meeting than a family gathering? And what's with you, lady in bearskin, gifting a wide-brimmed velvet hat too big for yourself, nevermind Weiss? We're five, not fifty! Get a new prescription if you can't see zeroes!

And the less said about the creepy Mistrali doll set the better, leave that locked up in the attic like other horror movie clichés.

Weiss broke every the dignity of polite society to immediately rush forward, and make the servant back away chuckling. The puppy gave her the pure joy reserved for children which the other gifts had failed to do. I suppose other children had a better clue what might be good as a gift than their parents who clearly forced them to be here!

And boy, was her smile infectious. Not even the stooges were immune. From what I could see, the gathering's mood changed to a contest to see who's the last word in saying good things. First to lose, even though all of the yes-men were losers, was a guy who even I could tell wore body armour under his too-big white suit, anxious to make a good impression as he tepidly congratulated the Weiss who clearly wasn't listening. Aside from that, the rest fell in line as a reverse sort of pecking order.

I myself smiled but kept quiet. Father asked me a week ago, in a playful 'try your luck' kind of tone, what's an appropriate gift for a girl and it seemed like this gambit of mine succeeded. He wore a mischievous smirk when he nudged me to pay him attention.

"You made a girl smile, Alex." Gerard Friedlich murmured, breaking even in pride for emotion with the devil's grin that normally found home on his face. "Congratulations."

What was he on about- Oh for fuck's sake, dad!

I just thought of a good gift for a girl! I quickly covered my face, as much out of embarrassment as to not look at the twinkle in his eyes.

Dear mother then chose to chime in. "You know, Willow Schnee is a good friend of mine. I'm sure I can put in a good word; she'd be delighted to have a playmate for her daughter."

I nodded in agreement, thinking that's a rather marvelous idea to get closer with Weiss, only to realize too late what she was playing at. For goodness' sake! I'm still five years old! Why the bloody hell are you shipping me with someone?

"I'm going to bathroom." I announced and got away from my parents embarrassing the crap out of me. Also to take a leak.

* * *

My parents' chuckles made me fumble asking a servant to direct me to the faculties. That servant looked like he wasn't allowed to laugh but clearly wanted to.

Some people thought I was the one this party was celebrated for - Like father and a lot of Atlesians, my eyes were blue as ice and white like snow, easily mistakeable for Schnees and other old money of Atlas. My father took the numerous faux pas' of the invited guests and the supplicants looking to have their names recognized alike in stride, and explained a total of six times over that he was not Jacques Schnee. It helped by being funny as hell to watch their stumbling about.

I turned out to be a pretty relaxed person in this life too, but it did get grating after the fourth group - all gaudy, pushy, rude women - gushed loudly over how adorable I was and had raised their arms for me to kiss their rings when Father looked at them like they were rent-a-cops that lost their guns, making them scurry away. I don't know how it's possible to be a petty, bitchy, scathing excuse of a person by being silent, but they managed it.

The faunus that directed me to the lavatory had been surprised when I thanked him. I had wondered why, only to remember that the Friedlich work culture was an exception to the Atlesian business attitude... which served to prove the rule.

To put it to perspective, the juggernaut of Remnant is a kingdom with a sheer presence to rival Prussia of Earth. Covered in permafrost and standing its ground on a truly titanic amount of Dust and exotic metals, comparisons to Switzerland would also be pretty much right. Service to the kingdom and bearing arms were requirements - it didn't matter how you served, only that you served, and that you were adept in bringing force to bear. And a mansion of the Schnee, among all this?

Standards are not low. And hadn't been, even in the first iteration of the company. They were just friendlier in how they kept things going back then. The rough-and-tumble folk of the faunus did not have an easy time here - at best they could find patient employers who didn't go down the dumbshit's train of thought to say all faunus were equally disgraceful to be around.

With this in mind, I don't think Weiss meant to be harsh in season one's final episode when she was face-to-face with Sun. I think she was handing him the opportunity to prove her wrong? Too bad he didn't pick up on it and was okay with what she said.

Once in the lavatory I first did a double-take as I saw a urinal. When I went to do my business there, I actually voiced my thoughts and said "Why are there urinals in a private house?"

Letting my mouth run loose was the first mistake.

"Because the family that lives inside this house often hosts events requiring a big lavatory." A voice behind me said.

I turned my head sharply to my right-and-behind - a black-haired man with sharp blue eyes who put in effort to look arrogant. Not somebody I'd share a cabin with. He continued once obscured by the divider between urinals.

"We can't have a line of guests for queuing outside for a full hour, now can we?" There was an attempt to be airy and casual. The token bare minimum and nothing more.

"I would greet you, sir, but you have caught me while I am occupied." Being as much of a shit like I am right now is a gamble - I talked like I was being maliciously compliant.

Derisive was the replying snort. "Not answering a need for the sake of politeness is unnecessary at best." The Atlesian high society's way of saying 'no shit' - or perhaps just this guy in particular.

"I see." my neutral, noncommittal reply would be a moment of weakness at the executives' table. But I was a child - he couldn't lay in on me.

"What are your thoughts on this party so far, boy?" He rushed on, clearly thinking the same thing and changing the subject with the subtlety of a broadside.

I knew my face hardened from being called boy, but I made the first courtesy regardless. "A magnificent event that comes once a year. A happy time, to be sure."

Again with the derisive snort, and this time he held back less. "You waste time with frivolity when there is gain to be made?"

"Is there no gain being made just because we're not watching?" I stunned him into silence with that one. "And besides, there's more kinds of coin than money that's worth having."

"Of course. And while you waste time partying, you could be bettering yourself and making profit." This heartless son of a bitch... but at least he seemed to catch how he sounded like. "You surely know the saying, 'friendship is friendship but bullets are money'?"

The coastal Mistrali saying had cheese instead of bullets... that word's use was strategic.

He knew who I was.

"Money is the purchase of food. Money is settling of debts. Money is the recompense of others for utilities, labor and essential service. The Lien is the measure of power, boy. How much you have to work with. This is a very basic fact."

"All the money in the world won't replace having loved ones to welcome you to a home. Something worth getting up out of bed for is better than just surviving another day." My delivery belied my own brain's function. I honestly struggled to string this point together - give me a break, it's been a while since I was tested like this!

We had finished our business and fixed our clothing. I was the first to turn and walk to the sink and in doing so broke the standoff.

"Spoken like someone that doesn't think they need to work for a living." his sneer was audible now. I took washing my hands slow, glad I couldn't stare at the guy. Jesus Christ mate, were you not loved as a child? Forest, trees, et cetera!

"Sir." I turned to face him. He was thankfully zipped up. His crossed arms were the first indication of his condescension. "I am five years old. When you're gone, I don't know anybody who will remember you with that kind of attitude."

"You are five years old. You don't know how the world works, or why people choose to remember anything."

It's because I'm older than my appearance suggests that he will succeed in baiting somebody who's not me with snobbery this cheap. Also whatever point he had been trying to make flew over my head. He was getting at something, but without context I had nothing to grasp at in search of an answer. I suppose he took my abscence of a reply as a win in his book, because his silence was smug as I moved to dry my hands.

"And what do you think of the puppy received by the young Schnee?" he continued, bemused and secure in his superiority. I had a lightbulb moment as I remembered something from home.

"It's a fine gift, sir."

"A slobbering mound of fur and veterinary expenses?"

"It's more valuable and useful than the world's biggest jewel!" I think he was fucking with me. This is real no-shit stuff; nobody who got ahead, nevermind actually succeeded, did so by not being aware of how they sounded, did they? After a point boardroom meetings were basically political for how things were approached.

"Explain." Or alternatively Try Me, he may as well have said.

"How are you supposed to learn a sense of responsibility without someone to care for?" I asked, and this time the silence was his. "How do you learn value for life without a pet to look after? It's just like family, you don't get something to care for because it prints money, you get it to better yourself. The things learned at an early age, and how we are shown them, shape our behavior as we grow, and thus determine future successes. Also, I thought Weiss looked sad and would like a friend."

"She has friends of her standing who she can further her career through." Said the man with condescension back in full force.

"None of those kids will teach her responsibility like we need."

"And who are you to talk of responsibility?" He wasn't so hostile anymore. Or at least he was more intrigued than snide now.

"Gerard's my dad and Alena's my mum. I am Alexander Friedlich. When my dad or the teams working for him don't be responsible, people die."

I don't think I could have pulled off saying that innocently as a grown man, nevermind seriously. I just recited it now with the same tone I remembered saying 'bye-bye bus' as a kid when the kindergarden teacher told us to wait for the lollipop sign to stop traffic once the school bus had passed.

But Lord, did it hit for full effect on the guy. The slack jaw, barely opened mouth and mournful horror in his eyes, exhalation until breathlessness. The wide eyes and slow realization that his being apart from this strata of society was to do with the simple truth of things, which the Friedlich company didn't bother skirting around. He surely wasn't unaware of hazards in Dust mining and refinement. I don't think he cottoned on that my family's business was dangerous by its own visceral definition rather than the produced goods being volatile by nature.

"Well." the man eventually restarted. "You are not wrong. I would not gift my youngest a violin. He wouldn't understand what it was. Or what to do with it." He slowly started getting the picture. "You bought the puppy to sharpen her, then?"

"If you think of her as not much more than a knife, then yes."

"... you are perhaps the cleverest, and wisest child I have ever met." He was angry. My direct insult was plain-faced, but I suppose he better understood how straightforward my family's side of things was, because he was humbled in his tone of voice.

"It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. Sir." I nodded and headed out.

* * *

Jacques Schnee nee Gele wasn't often surprised, regrettably. Things were usually as simple as him being proved right in holding his expectations low.

But of course the boy had steel in his spine. He must've been hearing casualty lists and battle reports since he was in his mother's womb. Deaths in Jacues's company were affairs of funerals and grievances and reasons for safety measures, and missives to morticians and human resources. By contrast, Friedlich family were no strangers of walls detailing name, rank and serial numbers.

When seeing the gift presented to his daughter, he had been furious, thinking that Gerard Friedlich was snubbing him and his company by likening his daughter's worth to be that of a dog. Affairs in high society were usually matters of keeping track what you thought of each other - doing otherwise was wasting time. That case proved otherwise, however, when he heard it was their son of five years Alexander that offered the mutt.

He decided to find why the boy chose a dog rather than anything else, and followed the child to the lavatory. Was he doing so at his father's influence?

Other reasons made themselves clear. It had been a child's innocent ramblings until the message turned out to be sharply thought out. More pertinent than the babble about companionship was the fact that learning how to care for things was how skills to do with management and the handling of others were developed. Certainly starker than any nonsense about 'the right thing to do' was the pitilessly logical conclusion of laxity when life was on the line.

The Schnee patriarch walked his walls with his mind on the future head of Friedlich Arms. The boy was entrenched in harsh realities and bitter truths, it seemed. And despite it all, his will for rightness made itself manifest through sheer practicality.

This was a very handy thing to have for a member of an old family with a net worth of billions, prestige nearly matching the legacy of Huntsmen, and an uncontested hand in state affairs.

His daughter busied herself with cooing over the puppy, ignoring the expensive gifts a few feet from her and the other children that kept their distance. Not far away was his eldest daughter Winter, also pleased at the gift, but losing less dignity at her seat at the table. Until Weiss stood and brought the puppy to her, dumping it on her lap. The mongrel looked up and made to lick her, not reaching further than its own nose and the tips of Winter's reaching gloves.

He cut his gaze to the Friedlichs, across the white-clothed table as broad as a man was tall that marked the line around his luxuriant and spacious hall. Nothing but the usual out of his... colleague. Or his Valean gold-digger of a wife.

But their son stared back at him.

A plan came together. Or if his growing suspicion was correct, it was simply he who became aware of the plan already in motion.

The Schnee family would likely have its dominance made secure, for more than just a few generations.

* * *

A/N: Taken from my Spacebattles account, Pastah_Farian.

In other news, I have decided to change my previous username to my SB one. For easier identification purposes.


	4. Chapter 4

A week after Weiss's birthday party, Mother received an invitation from Willow to join her for luncheon at the Schnee mansion. A regular activity for her, they were indeed close friends. What was abnormal was that Willow asked for me to join Mother as well.

I adamantly refused, making silence fall on the dinner-table. My mother was astounded, bedazzled and otherwise stupefied. My father looked as if under his finger was a button to cause mischief, and his temptation to press it was stayed only by his patience to see where this would go.

"And why won't you like to go?" asked Mother kindly.

I couldn't say it outright - or at least shouldn't - but I didn't want to go back to the claggy scene of the Schnee manor. The suck-ups and losers really belonged in the atmosphere put up by Jacques fucking Gele, I refuse to call him a Schnee.

And I don't appreciate this stupid attempt by my parents to set me up with someone!

I resorted to the neat trick kids everywhere could fall back on.

"I don't wanna."

My parents burst into laughter. My face went ruddy while I stared down into my soup, counting the mushrooms. Mother's scarred hand went to the side of my head and gently tilted up till I looked at her. In the background Father dearest wiped his face with a hankerchief.

"Alexander. We have been invited to a formal event." Alena had the patience of a saint as she stated the very basics. While I was drinking a glass of orange juice with my breakfast, I began to suspect mother dearest was waiting for this line ahead of time. "If we refuse, we would look rude. As we are, rudeness is not what we want to give to our friends. Small things like this build up good relations so we can make our business run more smoothly."

Mother's explanation was from the heart, but I think she had been worrying over how to get it through to me for a while now.

Father saved her all of the not much more trouble. "We're going, that's final!"

"Do I really gotta go?" Yes, I whined again. Like I was right to do right now - I'm five!

"Yes. She asked for you by name, you need to get out of the house more, and because I said so."

Well, that was this day ruined. I finished up my cream of mushroom soup of a breakfast by folding the toast in half, dunking it into the soup and eating it all that way.

* * *

We were dropped off at the Schnee mansion on the dot of twelve o'clock. I had not wanted to go here because there was a chance of running into Jacques fucking Gele. I refused to call him a Schnee. Another reason was the cold emptiness oozing through every crack and crevice to hang everywhere.

But then Willow welcomed us. The dark feeling went away, a little.

After welcoming my mother with the hug of old friends properly , her attention fell on me. "So here is the boy that gave Weiss that wonderful gift?"

I have to say I had been struck, closely, by the situation at large. That fucking prick of a Gele who was officially on my shitlist had hurt this woman with his neglect and apathy, too similarly to what my prick of a father had done with my mother back on Earth. But while the train of thought was taking dark turns in the back of my head, Willow had been looking at me with amusement and reaching out…

I got a tingling down the back of my neck. Pretty sure my hairs stood up on end as she ran her fingers through my hair. She was… soft. More than just how gentle she was, in how she held herself as well. I didn't need to put much effort into acting like the shy little boy, because, well, I was exactly that right then.

"Oh. I- It's nothing! Not at all!" I stammered, and Willow giggled in a manner most unladylike. I'm rather certain my face was still all red when she pulled her hand away.

"You must be hungry. Come, join us for our meal!" The… well, willowy Willow turned and headed further in. I think I saw where Weiss in the show got her ballet-hall aesthetic and mannerisms.

"That is what we're here for." Commented mother. She did not exactly say it sternly, but there was more than a hint of admonishment there nonetheless. Willow did not seem fazed, so I figured it was a thing between the friends they seemed to be.

After a short minute's walk we were at a room smaller – and kind of by default cosier - than the cavern of a hall that Weiss had unwrapped presents in the centre of two half-ring tables apart. I do think enough room to fit everbody around the present pile in the centre was too much distance between seats and the people they held for a kid's day to be with friends and unwrap presents and play games like normal days, but cheerier.

This event was not just for the three of us, either. The triple alliance – the future of the Schnee family and company – were already seated and snacking on entreés befitting their noble stature.

How do you do, fellow kids?

Winter had been finishing up cinnamon toast with powdered sugar when I walked in. Five years older than Weiss and I, she was dolled up in a junior cadet's dress uniform, and it was credit to her maturity and control that she had yet to spill anything. She wore her soon-to-be-signature hairstyle, too… she acknowledged me with a quiet nod and turned her attention back to the adults.

I made a mental note to befriend her - somehow - and show that understanding the things adults talked about wasn't past me just because I was younger. I am not stupid.

Weiss had been looking at me when I glanced at her. I don't think she had fully understood whatever lessons in decorum had been taught yet, because... well, I will say this to her credit, she made a good effort to look prim and proper like her big sister. But she was five. The duck-shaped plate of chicken nuggets and the glass of milk took a little bit of style away. All in all she was also quiet, but awkward. Adorkable doesn't exactly fit, for kids as little as us. And I'm pretty sure her future self would kill me if I told her that.

She was trying to make sense of me, I'm fairly sure. Was I friend? Was I foe? Such complex thoughts must have swirled in her head as she chewed around a mouth full of late breakfast. Such devious thoughts must be concealed behind those baby-blue features. I broke out my finest "ha ha, you've got no idea" smirk.

Not much to pay attention to in Whitley's direction. He was literally a baby. Present was the fact exceedingly detrimental to conversation that the most you could expect from a baby was "Gugoeugh?". And I lost my ability to babyspeak a long time ago.

Mercifully, Jacques Gele was nowhere to be seen. An unoccupied seat at the table stood as empty testament to whatever the bastard was up to. Knowing him, he was on a business lunch with his 'colleagues', or something.

Fine by me.

Willow spoke up, thankfully. "Tell me, Alexander, what are your hobbies?"

I nearly jumped for joy. I hate silence of that kind. Pausing in the middle of cutting my portion of our succulent fish lunch - baked battered trout with lemon! - my gaze turned up to our graceful host.

"I like reading books... oh, and cooking!" I just said the first things I know I do that came to mind. I realized it was such an un-Jaques-like answer that here it was a nice and safe answer. Also appropriate.

"You like... cooking?" Winter looked my way in disbelief. Quite fair - she was probably trying to imagine five-year old me working in a kitchen. But because she meant no ill will I could only smile. Also, this is one of my favourite hobbies.

"Oh yes! I like to cook because sometimes Mother doesn't let me eat what I want to eat! So I thought if I just made them myself then I wouldn't have to worry! It was hard at first, but I can cook as good as anyone now!"

"Anyone now?" Mother dearest piped up with a fond smile. I must have gone red out of embarassment. "He's eating sweets nearly everyday because he learned how to cook. I never should've let him into the kitchens."

My mind screamed, but I forced myself to keep it to a sad face. You do NOT separate a Filipino man from his ensaymada. Lest you risk certain death!

"What can you cook?" Weiss asked of me. I pondered what to say. It wouldn't do to reveal Italian cuisine with a little bit of French in the mix was my forte. And while I certainly could make somebody feel full with a nice Filipino dinner... A simpler approach was needed.

I just bowed my head at the truth. "I cook a lot of sweets mostly. Normal food is hard."

"I like sweets now." immediately declared Weiss. Willow reached over and gently closed the mouth of her daughter that must have been imagining pestering me for unlimited free candy.

"So do I." chimed in Winter. Befuddled, I looked from one to the other, mostly because of the sudden pressure. And Whitley must be smarter than I thought because he kicked one leg and the other and smiled, reaching both arms out at me.

"I... I can make you sweets if you like me to?" I offered.

Mother tutted, making me freeze in place. "Alexander Friedlich, no dessert until you finish your lunch!"

"The same goes for you as well." Willow added sternly, fixing her children with a gimlet eye.

Weiss and I shared the same slumped, glum nod. Winter was frowning, not appreciating being disciplined like a toddler. Little Whitley didn't seem to notice as he still was being cute.

"You said you liked to read books? What kind?" Winter made an effort to move the conversation along, tension slowly being put aside.

"Ummm... I like history a bit, and my dad's work stuff looks cool."

Winter had thankfully been polite enough to not interrupt. But it was still with a smile rekindled - and some excitement - that she took up what seemed to be a field she held interest in.

"You like history? What's your favourite era?"

I stammered, balking at the surprise of such passion. "Well I-"

* * *

Willow Schnee chuckled in pride, watching the conversation turn animated as her children and Alexander interacted. They all looked similar... they acted so similar and familiar that she could've mistaken them as siblings. An incident sprang up in her recollection - the boy and his father had been mistaken to be Schnees themselves. Gerard had taken it in stride with a smile, dutifully informing that they were in fact not of the Schnee family. And the little girl at his side had not been Weiss.

Willow found humor in it. Her... husband... did not.

When he had heard the servants gossiping in mutters about it, he had retreated from the main hall to trample the house's carpets in rage. How could they possibly dare to think that way. How could they dare to say Gerard Friedlich was more of a Schnee than he was. Thinking over these fond memories, Willow in the present sipped at a glass of her favourite Vacuo white wine.

It was fact known to anyone who looked at public marriage records that her husband was a Gele who married into the family. The fact that the Friedlichs were thought to be Schnees must have stung at him. Being compared to a lineage with history far older than her father's company and coming up short... well, let it not be said the green-eyed monster was a stranger to the society he tried to build up around him.

Jacques's declaration to make the Schnee name truly great had become a broken record when Willow arrived at the understanding that everything he did was for the company, not for her or the family. The marriage had turned cold... and to think she had found his earnest passion romantic when they first met. She took a dark satisfaction in his pride taking a hit, and hid it well. It was the least that could be done after the company had been taken from her.

When the children had emptied their plates, they excused themselves from the table. Winter was first to stand, inviting Alexander to their library. She was far more excited than her already vibrant expression suggested as she found someone interested in her favourite subject, younger or no. Weiss was second to rise, demanding that he make her sweets in the kitchen immediately. As the siblings' spat began, baby Whitley played with his food and Willow gently applied a napkin to his chin.

"Someone's popular." Alena remarked. Willow turned to her old friend and saw amusement. Affection. Pride. The norm of a mother.

"He seems clever for his age, Alena." Willow idly commented, recalling the boy's reserved air and deliberations on action.

"He takes after his father after all." The palpable beam of her smile made Willow turn back in amusement as she finished tending to little Whitley.

"But were we expecting any less?" she made the counterpoint, to which her fighter friend snorted.

A decidedly unladylike mannerism. Not the thing for polite society.

Just like old and better times.

Willow had in truth been expecting the boy to become either hyperactive, or a glassy-eyed mess of nerves. She had not expected genuine maturity out of the boy...

With a slowly rising suspicion, she turned to look at Alexander while he still stood at the side of Weiss and Winter's continuing argument.

Looking back on the events in which she had seen him, she then understood that that his actions could have been the product of careful calculation and forethought. And all that she had gotten Jacques's usual brusque covering of the basics when she asked him why the change of heart from seething anger to careful thought.

She finished her wine glass and voiced to her friend the latest goings-on in life. Behind the mask of normalcy, she carefully pondered the prospects of the future as she now understood that Alexander was no child.

Well. This would not be the first time the kingdom of Atlas had a reincarnate. Willow could only hope that the stories of old souls had more than a grain of truth.

* * *

A/N: Taken from my Spacebattles account, Pastah_Farian.

Apologies for the slow pace of updates here. Krasnogvardiech, my beta reader and I are editing my old chapters. I wrote my old chapters rather quickly and the grammar isn't exactly stellar. We are remedying that now.


	5. Chapter 5

With my socializing duties fulfilled, I could return to being the filthy recluse of an Atlesian that I was. My parents also returned to their normal duties - I saw Father less and less at home as he went to work, being both as a public figure that gave statements and speeches and presentations and public relations. All necessary busywork even before the part about conducting and leading an international arms manufacturing company.

Most children growing up might throw fits and tantrums to get parents to not go to work and stay home, with quite a point behind their attitude - being children and thus requiring nurturing. It would be extremely stressful for all involved, and worse if said family were billionaires who saw counted minutes more preciously than they counted currency.

I think it was fortunate that I was not a normal child. A grown man in a kid's body, and all. I saw the situation and left them alone, distracting myself with other things.

Like getting into the family business.

Unluckily - I wanted to breach the topic first! - daddy dearest beat me to the punch.

One pleasant evening at dinnertime, while we were eating mundane rich-people food and talked about mundane rich-people things, I noticed mother and father sharing the kind of look that was suspicious. Very suspicious.

I feared it was something embarassing - for Lord knows they wouldn't pass up the opportunity - but it turned out otherwise, for which I'm thankful.

"Alexander." Father began, cupping his hands to form a sphere and conceal his mouth in the hunch-over of having pondered and prepared for something for days, a mannerism he kept far from company meetings. "Your mother have been discussing how soon we would introduce you to the company."

Mom sat in her Pose of Disapproval, arms and legs both crossed and with the tilt to her head that said she - what else - didn't approve, but wouldn't stop it going through.

Dad clearly had thought this out ahead of time, but he still was pausing to collect his thoughts while I waited patiently for him to continue. "We thought to introduce you when you were a bit older, but at this point... you attend most of my meetings anyway, and have shown real potential in planning, staffing and roster-work- CEO skills!" he got himself together at Mom's sudden serenity which usually preceded a dope-slap. It was more shameful for him to be in that state rather than anything that followed - that was him going way ahead of what he'd planned again.

"So! We've decided to advance your introduction." He finished with a happy clap of his hands and a come-to-the-conclusion look. "Now, if you decide not to, we understand. We won't force you to do what you feel isn't right for you."

Unbidden came the memories of this same man making me wear Pumpkin Pete onesies. And Mum dressing me in girls' clothing. Shivers ran tingling down my spine.

"But... if you DO accept, then..." Father turned his head, eyes closed, and spread hands to the ceiling with elbows on the tabletop. "We can begin immediately."

"Your mother and I will train you, personally, in the art of business and arms dealing."

What lay upon me... now, I am a man of God. I know there's an essential truth in one's way of living. Dad once offered me the question to puzzle over; a man knows his road and walks it well - what does he have that you want?

I wasn't nearly blind enough to ignore the implications unspoken, right now, of... more than our family's history. It was the call, that made fingers twitch when we saw a workbench. That quiet pull that was usually accompanied by a change in barometer readouts, the deepening of the sheer scale of things when we saw a project in the works. That sense, where as soon as the idea of a weapon was floated, if we were playing to begin with, the mood just changed.

In these seconds of silence I mulled over it, considering not whether I should but instead what reason I had not to. The heritage of the Friedlich line...

I quietly nodded. "When can we begin?"

Pure surprise on their faces. They must certainly have been expecting a denial or an explanation. I knew better than to make them think I didn't understand the real scale of things here.

"You're taking this well." commented Mother, making a deliberate sip at her water.

All I could do was grimace - Dad was frozen in place, probably worrying anything he would do would wreck things at this juncture.

"Mother, this was going to happen sooner or later. I know my duty as Father's heir. I will do what is expected of me." These robotic- no. These sterile and sanitized lines were the type of things it was good to say in Atlas. Impersonal. Concise. Leaving no openings or possibility of misinterpetation. Belligerence endeared nobody, here. My parents were the model of decency, but still very much upper class. Mother had adapted well, I'm told. It was just the way things worked here. Expectations to be followed. No questions asked.

They tried to hide it with a touch more boisterousness and spontaneity than was quite acceptable in this high society, but there was no hiding the pleased stances, the set of their shoulders and the almost-smiles. This is how you stroke the ding-dongs of the upper class, it seems.

And on the subject of spontaneity, Father proceeded to make the chandelier rattle.

"Excellent!" All I could do was wince at his volume. "This calls for celebration! Dear- a bottle! The southwest Mistrali spiced? What do you say?"

Mother tutted and glared. "I don't think so mister. I need you sober for what we are going to do tonight!"

My face scrunched up. What, are they going to party? At this hour? But then, Dad's shit eating grin explained everything.

For fuck's sake, Mom.

* * *

In the next day and the days after that, my lessons in the art of business and arms-dealing began in earnest.

My parents had written down a routine for me. Mother would tutor me on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She taught me the more banal side of business - accounting and administration mainly for material too sensitive to pass off to a secretary, and staffing and management as well. It was the hardest to do, considering arithmetic was never my mojo, much to the amusement of my friends in my prior life. And for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, father would come in and teach me the age-old art of making, selling and distributing weapons. Sunday was for breaks and my parents were adamant that it would only be used for breaks.

Today was Saturday, and I found myself seated on a spare desk in father's study. He would tutor me there, both to get used to working in a room like it, and to listen in and observe when he had meetings.

The manufacturing and dealing side was done like any other normal business. Goods, market, demand, supply, logistics of getting product to the buyer, so on. The real head-scratching part - specifically, the part where most people got hangups or cold feet - was the fundamental fact that the business revolved around producing weapons for those who intended to use them. Weaponsmithing came with expectations and said expectations... put simply, in this profession black and white were bald-faced lies. The most practical way to put it was that sincerely good people, and likewise the truly evil, even combined were still vanishingly rare and far overshadowed by the vast majority of buyers who were mostly normal and doing what they needed to survive, or ensuring their own best interests. A conscientious arms manufacturer is a terrible arms manufacturer. These points which were finely discussed by daddy dearest and me.

"Father." I said, in the tone of questioning.

"Yes?"

"How does our company sell arms to other kingdoms?"

"Trade deals negotiated between legislators and lobbyists. You got to the foreign relations bit already?"

"No, not that, I'm just wondering. What are the steps taken between our guns being made and them being bought in other kingdoms?"

Dad took the moment to look up at me properly, in wonder of what the hell I was babbling about. This would normally be quite fine as five-year olds are wont to babble, but we were here under the pretense that I was far ahead of most children. Also presently I was reading through Inter-Kingdom Market Dynamics, A Primer by a Jezbelt Greenfarrow, and looking at the powerpoint presentations that Dad could crib from his meetings and print off - meaning nothing needing a security clearance - which helped me see how the principles detailed in the book played out in real life.

"Well, security is everything. And not just to cover our butts to say we made an effort like the idiots competing with me in Vacuo. To export anything at all you need an export license from the Council of Atlas. That's mostly just so all the hoops are jumped through. Which a good product will do so with ease!"

I almost bit my lip. It was a very nice opener, but there was too much still in the air. "How do we find buyers?"

"Hold your horses! I'm not done, not nearly." Dad smiled at me, in the worryless look of care and understanding. The window behind him showed a gentler tinge to the usual overcast - it was as close as we got to sunshine in this time of the year... admittedly with the enquinox right around the corner.

"First the Council of Atlas issues the export license if and only if your product's worth attaching to the name of our kingdom. Our family has been golden with that, ever since the Export Licensing Act was passed in your great-great-grandfather's day. Then because we export dust munitions along with our guns, we have the Volatile Goods sub-license. Then because our product explicitly includes firearms we have the Military Equipment sublicense, at which point we have our liasons to the Atlesian military forces shake up every point of the logistics chain just to make sure things go where they need to and nothing goes missing. Only THEN does it get sealed, loaded into secure containers - the companies designing them also have their own verification protocols - and then shipped away. Then once it arrives, the organizations of processing and security checking of the other kingdoms do their job. I can't order them to treat every gun like it's made of glass, but I can send inspectors along if I have due cause to. Just one container going missing is five hundred rifles or forty-four thousand bullets that we were paid for and didn't arrive. We have to ensure the buyer receives the goods they purchased!"

"Can't we send the product to them directly?"

"Not possible." Father's smile didn't go away as I gaped in shock, and he continued. "Multiple kingdoms' worth of distribution agencies is sadly a bit high for us to reach for."

"So how do we find buyers?" I was by no means ignoring the process Dad just laid out, I was just focusing on my original question.

"The open market! We live in a dangerous world, and that means there's plenty of demand. We make quality weapons and everything to service them, and price them for better value than our competitors. We publish and regularly update our catalogue over the Cross-Continental network, detailing inter-kingdom standardized item codes."

"So how do they get it? In the mail?" This confused me, but it was closer to the issue I wanted tackling.

"No," Dad paused to drink cooler water. "Reputable buyers and arms dealers bulk purchase stock from us, and distribute locally after that."

"What do they do to make sure the wrong kind of people don't get guns?"

"There's a lot covered just by 'wrong kind of people'. What do you mean, son?" Father asked me.

"What's done to make sure people who hurt others won't get guns to do that with?" I knew this old story. I just wanted to know Dad's take on it all.

Sadly, he stalled on me and faked being nonplussed. "There are standards in place, Alexander. Civilian dealers are required to provide an end-user certificate signatory to their Kingdom or locale's law enforcement. Militaries and militia are exempt from it, but the Council of Atlas are the ones who decide which groups are approved to buy."

"Why?"

"Sometimes to make sure there's no tomfoolery with our weapons, but primarily to make sure our guns won't be turned against us."

"How do bad people keep getting our guns, then?" Oh, I love this routine. I earnestly wanted to know and dear Dad fed me course after course of information. I had then started to get the feeling that he was enjoying shooting down all my questions as much as I was enjoying trying to find the one that would pierce his armour.

"Guns aren't bio-degradeable." At that simple quip, Dad sat up and leaned forward, resting his forearms flat against the table. The look on his face suggested he was mightily tickled by my precociousness, and stoking this flame just to see how far I would take this train of thought as truth after truth was revealed to me.

I love you, Dad.

"Quite frequently, when a militia group crushes bandits enroaching on their home they result in not only a mass of scavenged, outdated weapons that are far inferior in function to designs more recently produced - and thus better improved, incorporating modernization advances in the metallurgy and manufacturing, but also usually a good stockpile of munitions which would have been fed those guns. Cartridges, shells and rounds can usually be repurposed, but the weapons as worn out as they are at that point are usually good for not much more than scrap metal. Very rare that bandits and insurgents have well-maintained equipment, you know!" he concluded with pointing a finger, smiling and nodding his head, egging me on even with no malice.

"So what happens when the militia don't have the equipment to melt the guns?"

"They bury them, often, or if they have air shipments they sell them to salvagers who take them apart for any components still useful and melt down the rest to be recast into new guns!"

"But that makes bad guns with the metal fatigue doing stuff to the material!"

"That was the case for a long time, but not with modern methods! Gravity, Burn and Freeze Dust are incorporated into the material reconsolidation process. That's detailed in page one-oh-two." His comment was matched by a point at the Primer still in my hands.

"So what about new guns?" Back to my point. "What if a dealer buys a whole lot more than they really need and sell the excess to the bad people?"

"Dealers' assets are kept well accounted for." Father's joking air was gone, replaced by an angry scowl, with a matching menacing frown. It seemed that I hit one hell of a prickle. "A big portion of the reason we send company inspectors is to analyze and determine whether or not their stated capacity is actually in line with how much they're planning to buy. The contracts they sign permit us to turn their entire warehouse up and open every single container, no matter how small, in search of our goods unaccounted for."

"So is the Atlas Council's word actually a real guarantee?"

"That's the reason the process is the way that it is! Guaranteeing the security of the buyer and the user. The scrutiny borne in order to obtain the certificate is very rigorous." But there was discomfort in Father's voice, now, and I zeroed in on it.

"Is it all a facade? Will nothing really guarantee our guns don't go to evil people?"

I don't know exactly when there grew to be a steely glint in Father's eyes. I saw him sitting still with intent and potential energy, ready to throw himself into this hill to die on. But still, his silence told me his next words were plotted with care.

* * *

Gerard Friedlich sighed, having stood to leave his seat empty and his beloved son's trajectory of thought unadressed. His reflection made him curse up an unspoken storm when he caught sight of himself in the window. It was made worse by the sight of his son's angelic face, still rapt at attention.

The intrusive memories arose, again unbidden. They were accompanied by the icy twinge of shivers running down a back that worsened with his age. A similar situation had played out in this same room, many years ago.

A younger man had more than just yelled. The younger man stated in no uncertain terms that if being in this business meant handing weapons to murderers, then his conscience and basic decency dictated that he would have no part in it.

Alexander's grandfather had smacked Gerard for that. That his skull was spun right to his side before jerking back from the burly man's blow stung less than the sheer venom in the old man's sneer of disgust.

Gerard had fallen back, hitting his head on the sill three fingers' breadth from the side. The dent was still visible under the laminate and paint.

You would ruin everything our family has done? For CENTURIES? All in the name of moral self-indulgence?! You think you're the only one with a conscience! You think it is moral to put thousands of Atlesian citizens out of work! Is it moral to deny the Kingdom we serve a revenue of billions? And the agri-domes and heating stations - Atlas depends on them to survive! You think they run on MORALITY?

The old man's roar had made this window rattle, twenty-two years ago. And in his heart of hearts Gerard had known his father spoke the truth, as much as his honor spoke to him to ignore the heartless drivel, trying to make its word law.

"No. It is not." Gerard answered his son's question in the present day, with his mind a million miles away.

Then you understand our position. And your task. Get out of my house, and come back when you have a spine.

Gerard left that room a lesser man, young as he was. That was not the last time he and his father would have such a talk.

But that wasn't what needed to be done. Not here, and certainly not now. It seemed like Alexander was growing aware of the stark, bleak reality of things, if the truths which he spoke in assuming they had been fact could be taken as statement of intent. Frankness, not brutality, was what was needed here.

"Alexander..." Gerard began, before a hitch made him stop speaking. He took a moment to force it down. Deals with warlords and chieftains hadn't fazed him, but it seemed it was this that blew a hole in his guard.

"Dad." It seemed at some point his little boy had left his seat, and snuck as silent as a dormouse to his side, because Alex's arms suddenly wrapped around his waist and belly while his little chest whumped against the small of his father's back. The surprise made Gerard jolt and raise his arms, to which his son just tightened his grip.

"Your hands were shaking. Are you alright?"

Gerard became conscious of the fact. He took several deep breaths, purging his body and mind of the negativity, the fear and the anger brought about by those horrible memories. The processing of this was helped along greatly by the feel of the noodly arms of his son holding him tight.

He reached behind to ruffle his son's head, but Alex darted back to look up to him... and let Gerard see the drawn worry for him on Alex's face. The father settled for clapping a hand on the young one's shoulder to squeeze reassuringly.

"Alexander. As the inheritor of Friedlich Arms there are truths of the world you need to understand. Ignoring them is the onset of folly, and ruin."

"Either you deal in weapons, or you do not." Gerard continued, airing the filthy reality of their profession with every carefully measured word. "All efforts are made to control where our products end up. But at the end of the day, every countermeasure is not only something that can go wrong on its own, it's something that can be circumvented."

"Our weapons are the best produced in the world. Out of any other operation that is an exaggeration, but I have searched through every market, across every contractor and every manufacturer's technical handbook. No other manufactured weapons are as good as the product of our company." Gerard spoke with quiet pride.

"Specifically, our produced weapons are a necessity for mankind's continued survival on this world. If we withold production, or export, to any kingdom we put civilization and the whole world at risk. While we do take measures - extensive ones - to ensure the security of our operation and our interests, the moment a grenade, a rifle, even a microchip is assembled, shipped and handed to the buyer we are not responsible for how it is utilized, or where it goes. As soon as it's an asset in the hands of those who will use it..."

"Well. Hoping for the best doesn't do much. It would behoove our buyers to use it for the betterment, not detriment, of both our society and theirs, but it is the man on the line in the field who decides where he aims and when he pulls the trigger."

"The SDC say the same about their Dust." Alexander chipped in, perking up. "They say because Dust is crucial for everything, the means justify the end."

Gerard's answering scowl of real anger - at them, not his son - was fierce. "We're better than that."

Gerard took a moment, walking to the cooler and proceeding to fill a plastic cup with the most refreshing two sips of his life. Damn and blast, he was right to say they were better. It disgusted him when his company was compared with the miserly skulduggery done by Jacques. And yet, the similarities were canny.

The fact that Friedlich Arms treated its employees both human and faunus as better than rancid shit was a cold comfort.

"It is a bad business by simple definition. But it is crucial that we do not orient our priorities, our character and our viewpoints to match. You know, it is possible to make killing tools and still be a good person."

"Hey!" Alexander piped up, cutting the lecture neatly. "No being sad. That's a rule now. Clear?"

Gerard's laugh came up from the belly while he discarded the cup. "Well, your old man still has some life in him!"

"HA! You called yourself old!"

"How DARE YOU!" Gerard's rumble of mock anger grew to a shout when he lunged and lifted his fifty-pound son up and raised Alexander squealing up over his own head. The boy took the opportunity to spread his arms like a Bullhead's wings.

And then would intervene the third of them. "Gerard and Alexander Friedlich!" She pushed the door open to see two boys busy being not even remotely dignified. Little Alex was trying to grab at his father's beard from up above, apparently having forgotten that the older man shaved it off a week ago, while Gerard still had the boy hoisted at arms' length like a sack of potatoes, face smushed by his son's fingers while both of them blinked owlishly at the mother's direction.

"What on Remnant are you doing?" Gerard felt less danger when dodging bullets and blades from assassins than from the wrath of his wife right now.

Alex in his arms let him dodge the bullet. "We're wrestling! Wanna join?"

Alena sauntered leisurely in from the doorway, fingers massaging her temples as the door shut behind her, her face somewhat softer after Alex's remark.

"I leave you two alone for all of ten minutes and-" She could say no more, for little Alexander bucked something fierce, twisting out of Gerard's hold of him aloft by his little sides. The little boy certainly had his mother's reflexes, because he twisted in midair to land on all fours. Alexander then launched himself forward to cling tightly to his mother's waist. The boy turned to him and yelled "Quick Father! I got her! Attack her while she's trapped!"

"What-oh!" Gerard did not hesitate. He roared a battle cry and lunged at his wife, bringing them all down two the floor. The boy and overgrown boy then assaulted her with tickles, to her giggles and slowly-dying-out-protests.

While his beloved wife lost her dignity laughing like a hyena, in the back of his mind Gerard arrived at the understanding of his wife's unsaid words. It was still study time for Alex and he still had duties to attend to.

Time may be valuable, but as he watched his son laugh in childish delight and basked in his wife's peals of laughter, he figured they could finish their work later.

Simply, there were things in the world more valuable than work.

Later, however, when Alexander was all tuckered out and heading to dinner, he reconvened with his beloved.

"Were you listening?" He asked.

Alena nodded in quiet pride.

* * *

EDITED BY: Krasnogvardiech

A/N: When I said the fic was going to be advancing and heartwarming shit was going to be lessened, I lied. And I will not apologize.

On other fronts, I wonder how the Schnee family (minus Jacques) would react to something like that. I guess it would go like this.

Willow, Winter, Weiss: Why can't I have a husband/father/family like that.

Baby!Whitley: Gougogugegjh?


End file.
